


Burst down the doors

by trisarawrtops



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Locked Out, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trisarawrtops/pseuds/trisarawrtops
Summary: He tries the door. Of course it’s actually properly locked tonight. He peers inside, raps on the glass with his knuckles, but there’s no one in the halls. Or, Bucky gets locked out of his apartment.





	

Bucky scowls at his laptop, grumpily jamming his finger on the backspace. He’s so close to being done, but he can’t get the words to cooperate. He sits back, crosses his arms and glares at his word processor, willing the report he’s working on to appear on the page. Instead, a low-battery message flashes onto his screen. He’s half-convinced it’s out of spite. 

He rolls his chair back, grabs his backpack and rummages around for his charge cable. He can’t feel it in there, but the lunch he forgot about at the end of last week is definitely present and accounted for, and disturbingly squishy. He sighs, shuts his laptop, and takes his whole backpack into his little kitchen. He unceremoniously dumps the entire contents of the bag on his counter: last week’s sandwich (possibly alive), a pair of headphones (tangled), a gym shirt (surprisingly clean), a pack of gum (half empty) and his bus pass (replaced) scatter across the fake granite. No charge cable, though. 

He throws everything but the sandwich back into his bag and returns the bag to the ground next to his desk. He shuffles some papers around gloomily - there’s an old draft of his report with his supervisor’s illegible scrawl all along the margins, and some of his own notes, half messy scribble, half neat diagrams, plus a ruler and that pen he stole from Nat the other day, but no charge cable. 

He rubs his face with his palm, reaches further back and pulls his hair out of its messy bun, running his fingers through it and rolling his shoulders. His left shoulder protests at that, tight muscles reminding him he should really stop skimping on his physio, because dislocated shoulders don’t just recover on their own, and he’s been hunched over his desk for way too long. He massages along the joint as he looks around the room, trying to spot his missing cable. His fingers are cold on the bare skin of his chest, which actually kind of feels nice. 

In front of him, his laptop gives a sad beep, then the little lights on its side blink out. It’s officially dead. Bucky scowls at it again. His evening is not going well. 

He makes his way back to his the kitchen, stretching his shoulder as he goes. His apartment really isn’t that large. There’s not many places a charge cable could be. As he passes the counter, he picks up his old sandwich, still in its plastic bag, and drops the whole thing on top of his garbage. It slides off and lands on the ground. Bucky crosses his arms and stares down at it. He fully blames grad school for this. Pre-grad school Bucky would have taken his garbage out by now. Pre-grad school Bucky would probably be hanging out with his friends right now, instead of writing a report at 9 pm on a Sunday night. Then again, pre-grad school Bucky wouldn’t be working on ridiculously cool prostheses. Grad school Bucky at least has that. 

Bucky yanks the garbage bag out of its can. He may as well deal with this now, since he’s not getting any work done. He throws his old sandwich in and ties the bag, resting it against the fridge as he reaches up to get a new bag. 

His hand brushes against something flexible and plastic. He steps back, looks up. The charge cable is on the top of the fridge. “What the actual fuck,” Bucky says out loud. He has no idea how it got there. He rubs his eyes. Maybe he needs to take a break. 

He gathers the charge cable in one hand and the garbage in the other, drops the cable on his desk, puts up his hair, tightens the drawstring on his sweatpants so they stop sliding down his hips, and shoves his bare feet into his flipflops. He doesn’t even bother to lock his door, since he’ll just be a minute, and he’s only going up half a flight of stairs. It’s cool outside, definitely becoming fall, and the gentle breeze is pleasant on his bare skin. He tosses the garbage bag into the dumpster at the edge of the parking lot, then turns to walk back inside, reaching for his keys in his pocket as he goes. 

His hand slides right off his hip, not catching on anything. He stops, looks down. He’s wearing his sweatpants. Which have no pockets, because, well, who makes sweatpants without pockets? It seems like a bad design. “Shit,” he says. He goes to reach for his phone to call Nat, who’s got his spare key, but still, no pockets, because he’s still in poorly designed sweatpants. “Shit fuck,” he says. 

He tries the door. Of course it’s actually properly locked tonight. He peers inside, raps on the glass with his knuckles, but there’s no one in the halls. His body goes cold then hot as he realizes he’s actually got a problem. He takes a deep breath. “You’re an engineer,” he tells himself. “Use your problem-solving skills.” 

He’s at the back of the building. The front door has a buzzer system. He’s hoping it’ll also have a building manager contact too. He hasn’t actually checked before. He walks around the building. If he hadn’t just locked himself out with no phone and no wallet, it would be a pleasant evening, clear and bright with the full moon just rising. 

The buzzer panel next to the front door has eight buzzers, one for each apartment in the building. There’s no building manager, no emergency contact, nothing. Just two rows of four names, his own near the top of the list. “Fuck,” he says again. His night is really not going well. 

He pulls on the front door, rattles it in its lock, but there’s no give, and no sign of life in the hall beyond. He knocks on the door as hard as he can, and still no response. He can see his apartment from here, the first one down the stairs to the left. He’s hoping his neighbour across the hall will hear him, but she’s an old lady who’s half-deaf anyway, and he’s not even sure she’s in town right now. He sits down on the steps, collects his thoughts. It’s Sunday night, so it’s unlikely anyone is going to be coming home in the near future. He has no phone and no way to contact Nat, who would bring his spare key in a minute if she knew. The coffee shop down the street is closed for the night so he can’t ask for help there. He’s kind of fucked and he’s starting to get cold – he’s literally just wearing a pair of sweatpants and flipflops, and his arms and torso are starting to feel the effects of the fall evening. He presses his palms to his eyes, pulls out his bun and redoes it messily. It’s a nervous habit of his, playing with his hair. 

He’s really got only one option, and that’s trying the buzzers to see if someone will let him in. He gets up and presses the button for his neighbour’s apartment. The intercom rings. And rings. And rings again, then, with a click, it silences. 

Bucky stares at the silent intercom for a good ten seconds. He was almost certain that would work. He steps back, paces the walkway, neatens his bun, and takes a couple deep breaths. He looks down the list of buzzers. Underneath his, and likely belonging to the apartment above his own reads “S. Rogers”. His finger hesitates over the button for a moment. He hopes S. Rogers is home. He also hopes S. Rogers isn’t the type to go to bed really early. 

He holds his breath and presses the button. It rings once then connects. “Hello?” asks a male voice. 

“Um, hi,” Bucky answers. “My name is Bucky Barnes. I live in apartment 2, but I locked myself out. Could you let me in?”

The line is silent for a moment. Then, “Ok, I’ll be down in a second.” The line clicks as the man hangs up, and Bucky sags against the building in relief. 

He hears a door inside close, then a man appears at the top of the staircase. Shit. It’s the hot guy Bucky exchanges good mornings with when they’re both getting their mail. Bucky’s seen him helping the old lady across the hall with her groceries, and has had a crush on him since forever. He’s muscular, blond and sweet, and totally Bucky’s type. 

Hot guy pushes the door open and Bucky gratefully darts inside. “Thanks, man,” he says. Hot guy nods, then looks Bucky up and down, taking in his bare chest, eyes catching at Bucky’s hips. Bucky is suddenly very aware he’s not wearing boxers under his sweatpants, and that this particular pair of sweats ride extremely low on his hips. 

Hot guy’s lips quirk up when Bucky catches him looking. He raises his gaze to meet Bucky’s eyes and holds out his hand. “I’m Steve,” he says. “Bucky,” Bucky responds, shaking it. Hot guy – Steve – has a strong grip, and calluses on his palm. 

Steve releases his hand and steps back towards the stairs, hesitates a moment and steps forward again. “Do you have keys to get into your apartment now that you’re inside the building?” he asks. 

Bucky nods. “My apartment’s unlocked,” he tells Steve. “I just got locked out when I took out my garbage. I thought I had my keys in my pocket, but - ” he shrugs. The fact that he couldn’t get back into the building speaks for itself. 

Steve nods. “I’ve done that before. Thought I had my keys, checked my pocket and they weren’t there. Luckily I had my phone with me.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “These pants have no pockets,” he says. “I have literally nothing with me.” 

Steve does a little double take. “I thought all sweatpants had pockets,” Steve says. “I thought that was the whole thing with sweatpants.” 

“Well, these ones don’t,” Bucky says. 

Steve laughs. It lights up his whole face. “Who makes sweatpants without pockets?” 

“Fuck if I know, but I won’t be buying them again,” Bucky tells him. Steve’s still grinning, and Bucky can’t help but laugh, happiness and relief bubbling through him. 

Steve’s head tilts a little, like he’s questioning Bucky’s laughter. 

“It’s just been a night,” Bucky says. “I was trying to finish a report for my supervisor for tomorrow, then my laptop battery died, and I looked all over for the power cord, which ended up being on top of the fridge for some unknown reason, then I got locked out of the apartment and wasn’t sure how I’d get back in. And now, I’m standing in the lobby, wearing only sweatpants, talking to you. This is definitely the best part of my night.” 

Steve’s grin gets bigger. “I’d have to be offended if it wasn’t,” he says. “Sounds like a rough night.”

“Well, it’s getting better,” Bucky says, before he can stop himself. Fuck, he has no filter. 

Steve’s cheeks go pink and he ducks his head, biting his lip. In that moment, Bucky is struck by how adorable he is.

“I’m sorry if this is totally out of line,” Steve says, looking through his lashes, “but do you wanna come up to my place?”

Bucky breathes out. “Yeah,” he says. Steve’s grin is back in full force. “Lemme get my keys though, so this doesn’t happen again.” He starts down the stairs, beckoning Steve to follow. 

Steve laughs. “I’ll rescue you if it does,” he says. 

Bucky puts his hand to his chest as they reach his door. “My hero,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes. Steve shoves his shoulder gently. Bucky laughs, feeling giddy, and pushes his door open. His keys are hanging next to the door where they always live. Of course they are. Bucky grabs them, pushes Steve out, locks the door, and then realizes he still has no pockets to store his keys. 

He looks at the keys cradled in his palm, looks up at Steve, and back at his keys. Steve follows his gaze. He steps forward into Bucky’s personal space, reaching a hand out to take the keys. Bucky moves his hand before Steve can reach it, stepping up close to Steve, looping a finger around Steve’s belt loop and drawing him in. 

“Hi,” Steve whispers. 

“Hi,” Bucky responds, twisting his wrist so he can slide his fingers into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans, letting his keys drop in. As Bucky releases Steve’s pocket and shifts his hand to grip Steve’s hipbone, Steve’s eyes go dark. He leans forward, ghosting his lips over Bucky’s. 

“Let’s go upstairs,” Steve tells him. Bucky hums an affirmative as he presses into Steve, turning the ghosting touch into a proper kiss, sucking Steve’s bottom lip into his mouth. Steve moans softly into the kiss, and Bucky’s fingers tighten on his hips. Steve pulls away abruptly, pupils blown dark in his blue eyes, and wraps strong fingers around Bucky’s wrist, tugging him toward the stairs. Bucky follows, one hand held captive, the other sliding along Steve’s beltline with teasing fingers. His day has just gotten a whole lot better.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is brought to you by the demands of grad school, and the following conversation with my wonderful boyfriend. 
> 
> me: ok i need opinions  
> should i lock bucky outside of a building in boxers or sweatpants?  
> cause obv the solution to this is that he has to be rescued by a certain steve rogers. clearly. 
> 
> him: Hmm, sweatpants but no boxers :P
> 
> Done. 
> 
> Title inspired by a Harvey Milk quote


End file.
